


Tom Riddle and the Medusa's Grin

by Whenhopediesyoung



Series: And Cassandra warned of War [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Characters of color, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Harry contemplates killing Tom Riddle app. every 5 second and you know what, LGBT characters, M/M, No Bashing, No Dark Harry, Rape/ non-con warning due to Merope Gaunt, Slow Burn, Time Travel, he's right, no "seduction to the darkside", no OP Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whenhopediesyoung/pseuds/Whenhopediesyoung
Summary: Cedric dies, and Harry the boy-who-couldn't-bloody-save-anyone wakes up to a graveyard missing most of its population.It only gets worse from there (obviously).
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: And Cassandra warned of War [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038894
Kudos: 4





	Tom Riddle and the Medusa's Grin

Harry scrambles up, awake and gasping in air that's thicker and harder to breath in then it had been a moment ago. He gasps through his mouth, a habit he had untaught himself years and years ago (shut your mouth already freak), lungs burning. He's on the ground, dirt ground into his palms and no amount of running his fingers in the sparce grass uncovers his wand. The graveyard is darker, impossibly, the light from Voldm- _Credic_!

Leaping up, Harry spins, looking wildly for black cloaks and silver masks, ears straining for a high cold voice. _What's going on_ , he wonders, looking at the low scraggly bushes at knee level. The imposing stone angel that had delineated Tom Riddle Sr.'s resting place is gone, any signs of fire and magic and the duel- _run Harry_ \- vanished like food left unattended near Dudley.

Harry shakes, the near-summer heat having vanished while he was out. Instead the air is heavy and cold, a sense hightened by the biting breeze that tumbles lazily through the graveyard. Harry jerks, nearly poking his eye out in an effort to adjust his glasses. They're gone- like his wand, like half the gravestones, like _Cred_ \- his lungs ache. An old fear bobs up from the part of him that goes stiff and cold still, when he sees a tall primly muggle woman- alone, it mutters, and Harry shakes in the next unexpected breeze.

"Hello?" The voice is deep, self-assured with a hint of a posh accent. Harry turns, eyes falling on a tall, commanding silhouette. For a second he thinks, _Cedric_ , purely due to the confidence in the stranger's stance. But Cedric was a teenager, _far, far too young_ , and the figure striding toward him has the height and broad shoulders of a full grown man.

Rather uselessly Harry squints, willing the stranger to come close enough to make out his face. Or further away.

The man closes the distance, darkly handsome with cold aristocratic features, familar even with years added onto it and Harry's weak eyes in the weaker light. He feels himself blanch, is moving backward before he can even think of it, mind a rush of white noise.

For all that Voldmort had seemed a nightmare given life a few moments ago, all ghastly pale skin and smoothed over features, lit by spell fire, this face this delicate and handsome face had taunted him for years worth of sleepless nights already. He can feel the stretch of skin too close to fiery letters, the casual showy flick of a wrist revealing his worst fears.

But then, facing Voldmort had never been as scary when he was the only potential causality.

Abruptly- blessedly- he can think again, fear and worry falling away. "Riddle." He says, as stern and demanding as the heroes on Dudley's programs. He's unarmed, facing a younger but just as murderous Voldmort on his own terf, with no hope of rescue. Outmatched, cornered by a more experienced, more dangerous foe.

Absurdly, he's tempted to smile. Laid out like that, he's as much in his element as Voldmort is in his.

Except... Voldmort stops. Stops moving toward him, not in the cool calculation, not with the intent to drawl on and on about how unmatched Harry is, no it's... It's a familiar sort of stopping, one Harry's not used to seeing inside the wizarding world. Not so much of a stop as a _freeze_. (Sometimes he sees them all bright and shiny and magic and he feels an ache in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he had when a gym coach saw how skinny he was and after a talk with the Dursleys he had been given more scraps, slowly, the stretched-out-past-comfort sensation).

The way he freezes... It reminds Harry of turning the corner and just barely failing to avoid drawing Dudley's attention on report card day. That equal and opposite feeling to catching a snitch right under Draco's nose. Of having walked straight into calamity. He almost wouldn't be surprised if the stranger slipped up and cursed, posh vinar falling right off of him in shock.

"You're one of them." He says looking at Harry in horrified realization, and laughs, the kind of laugh Sirius gives when everything is too loud and too bright and just too much to handle. So it's no real surprise, not really, when he follows that statement up by just... sort of sinking to the floor, face haunted. So it's even less of a surprise that Harry moves toward him, even as his mind chants _Voldmort, Voldmort, Voldmort,_ at him again and again.

That too-extended ache is sitting in his chest now. And maybe he should use this unexpected out to run, to take Riddle's wand, to save everybody _his parents_ before they're even around to be saved- are they already here, he doesn't _know_ \- expect that'll mean he's excepted why everything's different and some how he doubts old Tom will help him get back home.

That said, there is something mildly reassuring, knowing that sooner or later (or sooner and sooner and sooner) he would regret not listening to Hermione's lectures.

Resigned to asking Voldmort nicely to not be a prat, Harry crouches a few steps away, trying to look fierce and prepared. It falls away when the man presses a hand to his face, and says, "You're him then Merope's son?"

Probably the realization that this Riddle isn't actually Voldmort should have come before now, like when he'd said hello to a stranger in a family graveyard rather then casting Avada at them. Or possibly when he'd gotten down to the floor like a muggle. Or when he said 'one of them' like a reverse Petunia, all horror underlined with disgust rather then vise versa. It doesn't happen earlier though so Harry's stuck staring dumbly at the other man as he continues.

"I refuse to go back." He says it casually, conversationally, turning something over in his hand as he does. Harry stiffens, hand scrabbling for his missing wand, only to freeze as the man puts it up to his mouth- _he's a third year again and the moon is rising and a new chance at life is literally vanishing before his very eyes as pale ratty, features stretch and shrink_ \- and swallows face contorting.

He goes rigged at once, starts to shake, and Harry grabs for him, just as he starts to foam at the mouth.


End file.
